


Batter My Heart

by FayJay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-21
Updated: 2009-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 09:38:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/pseuds/FayJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Heaven, so you couldn't call this torture...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Batter My Heart

It's Heaven, so you couldn't call this torture.

It's for his own good, they're very clear on that. It's because God _loves_ him, and because God needs his obedience.

They're _saving_ him.

And Castiel doesn't want to Fall. He doesn't. He never imagined that he could be in any danger of Falling, but then there was Dean, and Anael, and Uriel, and so many of the things he has taken for granted have proved to be flimsy as Autumn leaves on the wind. He is no longer sure what he believes. He would never fall the way that Anael did, betraying her trust and duty just to satisfy curiosity, or boredom, or selfishness. Leaving the garrison weakened, letting them fight her battles for her while she played at being human; while she learned to read and write; jumped rope; ate icecream; drove cars; had sex; went shopping. Castiel would not be disloyal to his brethren, would not abandon his responsibilities for a _whim._ And neither would he forsake God for Lucifer, as Uriel did. He remembers Lucifer perfectly, of course – remembers the shocking beauty, the glory, the passion, the brightness. But Lucifer betrayed their Father, and Castiel would never compound that sin.

Still – he has doubts. He cannot help it. He finds so much on earth that is precious. So much of wonder. So much that should, surely, be protected. He questions his orders. He knows that it is unthinkable, and yet he thinks it: surely this _cannot_ be God's will. Surely someone, somewhere, has err'd. Surely this is not a hallowed path they tread.

And so they have dragged him back to Heaven before he can tell Dean Winchester that Lilith is the final seal. That the angels aren't trying to stop the Apocalypse. That they never were.

Almost, they came too late. Almost, he destroyed millenia of celestial scheming, defied the very word of God, and threw in his lot and his faith with the damaged mortal boy he had dragged desperate and trembling out of the pit. Almost, he ruined it all; betrayed everything he had ever believed in; abandoned his trust; gave up on saving humanity. Gave up on bringing them all to paradise.

Almost.

But they were not too late, and although he put up a fight such as he had never attempted before, Castiel was no archangel, and he was massively outnumbered. His brethren swept down upon him in brightness and fury and they would not be denied, and they tore him from his borrowed flesh and saved him from his folly.

They forgave him his corruption, blamed Uriel, blamed Anael, blamed the Winchesters themselves. They understood that it was his weakness, not his willfulness, that led him to this point. They said that they could help him purge away his flaws.

So – this isn't torture.

This is love.

And love hurts. Love is, in fact, almost unbearable. It is perhaps ironic that he has just been beginning to feel, had just begun stretching out his soul so tentatively, straining to understand what joy might mean, and sorrow. Now he is overwhelmed with sensation. Now his whole existence has become one endless, astounded scream of pure anguish.

He saw what was done to the souls writhing in Hell. He saw what Dean Winchester – or rather, the twisted, shattered, sullied creature that Dean became in Hell – did to them. He cannot help wondering whether what they experienced felt anything like this. Of course, Hell looks different to each soul imprisoned there. It is not a material realm, so each being there resides within their own personal Hell, using their own personal set of symbols and reference points to translate the purest forms of agony and cruelty into something they can comprehend. For the most part they see themselves as flesh, being tortured in the ways they can conceive, the ways that appall them and terrify them the most. But Castiel does not need metaphors. Castiel knows the true shape of the universe, and is not deceived by the surfaces of things. Although he can be deceived. Uriel taught him that.

Heaven is light, and cold fire, and grace. Heaven is the music of the spheres, the elegant measures danced by subatomic particles. Heaven is the endless note pouring from infinite strings set vibrating by the hand of God. Heaven is purity, the sloughing away of emotions and desires. Heaven is perfection. Peace. Love. It is, by definition, nothing at all like Hell.

But Castiel does not think Dean Winchester would recognise this as perfection, or peace, or love, and he is finding it increasingly difficult to disagree with Dean's definitions. Which is, of course, the reason he is prostrate before his peers and superiors, face downcast, pinions splayed, feathers quivering beneath the attention of countless other angels. This is not like their usual communion; this is not minds moving through minds like silk, like water; this is like steel wool grinding into delicate membranes, like hooked claws tearing through the lens of an eye and spilling its secrets. They are unmaking him, coldly curious and innocent of all compassion. They sort through his memories like they're shuffling a deck of cards, their visages critical and dispassionate. Unimpressed. And Castiel shudders, helpless and miserable, and tries to clutch these moments to himself; wants to protest that although they are looking, they cannot _see_. That they do not _understand_.

...the care with which a little girl pushes her littler brother back and forth on a red and silver swing in a park in Berlin. The way his heart beats rabbit-fast in his narrow chest, while his sister's voice buoys him up, holds him tight, lets him gurgle out his shocked delight at the rush of speed, safe in the knowledge that she will never let him fall....

...the pure, uncomplicated delight Dean Winchester takes in that first mouthful of cold and stolen water on his first day back on earth. The sweetness of the first mouthful of candy on his newly quickened tongue. The wash of helplessness and baffled fear that sweeps over Dean as Castiel tries to speak to him that first time, and his stubborn courage in the face of shattering glass and bleeding eardrums...

...the tiny flinch that an elderly gentleman in Goa makes with every step as he picks his way painfully towards his wife's grave, astonished at the frailty of his bones and remembering the scent of her hair and the warm, firm press of her body against his while they danced...

...Dean Winchester's face unguarded and content as he polishes his car to gleaming pitch on a sunny day, his thoughts wholly immersed in the here-and-now, oil and sunlight and beer and pine trees colouring his world with an innocence he had never expected to know again...

...the perfect circle inscribed in the air by the unshod toes of five-year-old Seif El Din Salem Salem as his father lifts him high up from the dusty street and swings him around and around and around, and he laughs for sheer delight...

...the precise mix of Autumnal shades of green and gold and brown that make up Dean's eyes...

...the expression worn by a teenager in Kyoto as he leans on his elbow and watches his lover sleep, entranced by the delicate curve of dark lashes, by the indent of the philtrum like God's thumbprint pressed gently above a perfect mouth as a signature; the painfully touching asymmetry of a once-broken nose...

...the things Dean says to wring a smile out of his brother when Sam is grim and preoccupied...

...the tenderness of a Somalian man shivering in Paris as he shares the few scraps of food he has scrounged with the dog that is his only companion...

...Dean's face in repose...

...Dean's voice, singing along joyous and off-key to one of his favourite songs...

...Dean's sudden smile, like a shaft of sunlight pouring golden and unexpected through dark and roiling clouds...

...Dean Winchester. Dean Winchester hopeful, gleeful, hurting, lost, angry, frightened, fierce, tender, tentative, crass, careful, blasphemous, lustful, reckless, righteous, right...

...Dean Winchester...

...Dean...

Zachariah's laughter is bell-bright and lovely.

“You _like_ Dean Winchester,” he says, tasting the word like it is something tart and utterly astonishing upon his fiery tongue. “You honestly believe that he matters.”

Castiel feels something like shame flooding through his soul. He _does_ like Dean Winchester. He _does_ think Dean matters. And he knows that this is folly, a perversion, but – he can't explain himself. He doesn't have the words that will make sense of this to Zachariah, to Gabriel, to Michael. His orders were always clear, his purpose unambiguous. The humans cannot be expected to understand what is best for them. It is only natural that they would fear the unknown, would shy away from paradise. They are fragile, fleeting, timorous creatures. Only – that isn't all they are.

“But Castiel,” says Zachariah, gently. “They are just _animals_. They're _meat_, and nothing more. Whatever were you thinking?”

Their attention is laser-bright, slicing into his consciousness, flaying his soul and thrusting deep into the heart of him, seeking out all his secrets. This is not the gentle sussuration of angelic voices, the tender brush of thoughts against thoughts. This is white noise, this is something frenzied and careless and unkind. They have scoured his memory, left him soft and shrinking and vulnerable, tender as a snail ripped from its shell, and they have been completely unmoved by what they found. They can see nothing in all these memories that is worth cherishing, nothing worth a moment's doubt.

This does not feel very much like love.

* * * 

When they let him return to the world, the relief is inexpressible. He is still reeling from greater pain than he has ever experienced before, but even so the sense of release is blissful, as though a thousand thorny tendrils of rose-vine had wormed their way into his shrinking flesh and wound around his heart and now he has torn his way free. He is bloody, but he is whole again, and himself, the integrity of his soul restored. Castiel feels tender and chastened, naked and ashamed of his weakness. He is painfully conscious of all the burning eyes watching him, all the ears listening for a hint of folly, all the merciless judges weighing up his every word and glance.

But worst of all, oh, most terrible of all, he finds that the sight of Dean Winchester still moves him more than sunrise over the White Desert, more than the voice of Hermesiel raised in song, more than the brightness of Michael's sword or the delicacy of the very first flower in Eden. Dean Winchester is still the most fascinating and painfully lovely thing in all of God's creation, and yet Castiel knows that Zachariah is watching for any sign of his – perversion. His partiality. So he hardens his heart and squares his shoulders, and makes a fine show of caring nothing at all for Dean.

He sees Dean's face as he tosses his curt words at him, feels the first little shock of Dean's startlement and hurt quickly succeeded by a bitter acceptance that cuts Castiel to the quick. Dean has never believed himself worth saving, has always been waiting to hear that Castiel cares nothing for him. That it was all a mistake. That he doesn't matter. That he isn't special.

This, more than anything, comes close to breaking Castiel's composure. But he resists, because he knows perfectly well that if he breaks now, if he gives any sign of sympathy, Zachariah will be on him in an instant. He needs to prove himself, or he will no longer be entrusted with this guardianship. And he cannot bear the thought of yielding up the protection of Dean to any of his brethren, to any of those cold, calm, dispassionate hearts that had sifted through his memories and felt nothing at all for Dean or for Sam or for any of the men, women or children whose lives they hold in the palm of their hands. He will do as he is bid, but he cannot desert Dean entirely. It seems only right that he should be there, should see this task through to the end. That he should bear witness, and offer whatever comfort he can. It is all he has to offer now. Even if, to Dean, it must look like he is rejecting him.

Around him Castiel feels the lingering consciousness of Jimmy Novak, his mortal vessel, and he knows that Jimmy, pressed tight and helpless up against him, cannot be fooled by Castiel's display of coolness. His emotions are bleeding everywhere, and Jimmy must know the ragged truth of him now – must know, at least, that he feels far more than he should. For the first time it occurs to him to pity Jimmy Novak. Certainly the man had prayed for this, but he never can have had the faintest idea of what he was inviting in upon himself. And Castiel has a fresh understanding now of how it feels to be violated, to be splayed and helpless and trembling at the mercy of something far more powerful and terrible than oneself. To be a prisoner in one's own being.

He does not know what to do with this perspective. He cannot abandon Jimmy's flesh, and Jimmy does not want his daughter to be ridden by an angel. He loves her too well to wish this upon her, although he does not want to bear it himself any longer, this 'honour'. He will suffer it for her sake. For love. The knowledge shames Castiel. He reaches out tentatively within the protection of this fragile body, finds the human soul small and tight and shivering under the onslaught of his grace, and tries, awkwardly, to touch it with gentleness, and to offer some kind of comfort, some kind of gratitude to this human he has been using for months. Jimmy Novak is _not_ Castiel's chattel. He is one of God's children, and this hospitality is a gift that deserves better recompense than it has received so far.

Castiel is very much afraid that Zachariah's lessons may have been lost upon him. He is finding it harder than ever to think of them as animals.

* * * 

The time is come. Castiel knows that he should be rejoicing, but all he can feel is a dull sense of relief. He doesn't want this victory. He knows that Dean doesn't want this – that Dean will be appalled, will be heart-broken when he knows the truth. But Castiel knows it is the right thing, and he knows that after everything, Dean will finally be at peace, and with his brother. Their differences will be forgotten, and the pain and the crushing responsibilities, the exhausting, brutal, thankless work, the guilt over what he did in Hell – it will all be over. Peace. Joy. Love. This is what he wants for Dean, even if Dean doesn't want it for himself.

He watches Dean blinking around at the 'Green Room' Zachariah has conjured into being, and his heart feels tight in his chest. There are platters of burgers, bottles of beer on ice, gilded furniture, gew gaws and harps and Zachariah is even making glib offers of pliable girls; Castiel is astonished that they can have sifted through Dean's memories just as they sifted through his own, and yet still have absolutely no grasp of what the man values. That they can imagine he will be distracted from his love and his concern for his brother by sex or by hamburgers. They have seen all the pieces that make up Dean Winchester, without understanding that the whole is more than the sum of the parts. They have not seen _him_, the courage and the love and the compassion of the man. They truly believe that he is just a dumb animal to be bribed and coddled and pushed into service.

There is so much that Castiel would like to say, but he does not have any idea where to begin. Most of all, though, he wants to apologise. For this. For the lies. For the future. For the past. He wants to apologise for not being the angel that Dean deserved.

When he tries to make this apology, Dean punches him in the face.

It hurts Dean far more than it hurts him, at least physically. But Castiel still feels the blow far more keenly than he should. And worse are Dean's words, and the desperate sincerity in his eyes; Castiel feels his resolve beginning to crumble, feels his feet slipping from the moral high ground with every urgent word that leaves Dean's mouth. Dean Winchester, he realises far too late, should _terrify_ him. Dean Winchester could make him walk back into Hell. Could make him turn his back on everything he has ever respected, trusted, believed in, fought for...

He shakes his head, knowing he is on the brink of something appalling, something inescapable, something world-shattering, and wanting to deny it. It is a cowardly impulse, to want Dean Winchester to take pity on him, to desist, to not ask this of him – because Dean is the only being who could make him take this step. He would not do it for Lucifer, or for Uriel, or for Anael – but he would do it for Dean. He _will_ do it for Dean.

But Dean does not understand him.

“You spineless, soulless son of a bitch,” says Dean, pouring all his helplessness and frustration into these words as he turns his back on Castiel. And Castiel feels his heart stutter in his chest, feels himself shattering quietly into a million pieces when Dean turns his back upon him. No doubt it is perverse, but still the knowledge that he has disappointed _Dean_ cuts him far more sharply than disappointing Zachariah or Gabriel ever did. Dean Winchester matters. More than anything, it seems. “We're done,” Dean says, and Castiel is shocked by how badly this hurts.

“Dean,” he breathes. Nobody is touching him. Nobody is doing anything to him, so this should not feel like a physical pain – but it does. It really does. He feels like he has sustained a mortal wound.

“We're done,” says Dean again, and Castiel cannot find the words to protest. He leaves.

But he's back again, only moments later, and in spite of his best intentions, because he knows Dean Winchester far too well, and he knows that this is the moment Dean will seek distraction. He should know better than to accept food or drink from supernatural beings, but Dean has never been very good at taking care of himself. Castiel is barely in time.

And it all happens so fast then. He does not know he has made this choice – or rather, he has known ever since Dean said he would rather take Sam as is, and take life with all its horrors and flaws, instead of dwelling at peace in Heaven. He has known ever since then that this moment had to be inevitable, and although he has been shrinking from it, he cannot help himself. There is a right and a wrong, as Dean said – and it occurs to Castiel, as he shoves Dean up against the wall and feels his pulse rattling harsh and fast against him, feels his warm breath puff against his hand, meets his shocked gaze and wills him to understand that silence is vital, and sees understanding dawn in Dean's green eyes, that perhaps, just perhaps, he has been slowly Falling all this time. For months. Perhaps that is what this is.

He thinks that Anael may have known this all along.

Castiel is terrified. That is the truth of it – he is terrified, as he slices quietly into his arm, into Jimmy Novak's arm, and uses the blood to sketch out the symbols that will buy them time. He is taking that final step, he is burning his bridges, turning his back on the hosts of Heaven, turning his back upon thousands of years of loyalty and fraternity and devotion and purpose. He is going, almost certainly, to his own death – perhaps imminently, perhaps only after a drawn-out hunt. But this is it. There is no going back.

He is terrified, and yet the feel of Dean's gaze upon him, the sense of blossoming hope, and forgiveness, and reviving affection, and pride – this warms Castiel right through. He is afraid to ask himself what he would not do for Dean Winchester. He has no idea how he came to this pass – but here he is, an angel of the Lord, ready to betray all he holds dear for the sake of one small, fragile mortal man. It is frightening, and exhilarating, and intoxicating all at once, and he is glad – oh, so very glad – that he can do this thing. That he can help Dean after all.

The prophet will point the way.

He's shocked to see them; they're upsetting the chessboard and flinging the pieces to the ground. They should not be here. But they are, because Dean Winchester begged Castiel for help, and he had not the heart to refuse him.

“You're not supposed to be here!”

“Yeah, well – we're making it up as we go,” he says, and feels Dean's gaze upon him. Feels Dean reeling from a sudden awareness of just what it is they are doing. Feels his wonder. Yes, he wants to say. Yes, this is for you, Dean. Because you _do_ matter. You _are_ worth saving. But then the archangel approaches, and there is not time for anything at all. Castiel hurls Dean towards his brother, and then turns to face his own brethren. He can feel them winging towards him now, and he knows that he is painfully over matched – but he will buy Dean time. He will make a stand. He _will_ hold them off, hold them all off, because he told Dean Winchester he would.

Chuck tries to lay a hand on his arm. It is an odd gesture, a very human gesture, and Castiel does not appreciate it. Not from Chuck. From Dean Winchester, of course, it would have been another matter.

It is ridiculous, he knows, to feel joyous at a moment such as this. But he cannot seem to help himself. Even as he tries to steel himself for the battle, and wishes that he were a more formidable fighter, his heart is brimming over with something he cannot name. Something exhilarating, intoxicating, something that fills him with light. Something an awful lot like his grace, but warmer, brighter, more earthy.

And it is only as the host come bursting in upon them, only as the windows shatter and the lights explode and the room is suddenly incandescent with the glory of Heaven, that Castiel realises what this is.

_This_ is love, he realises. This. And he finds his mouth curving, very slightly, into a smile, as he turns to face his brothers and sisters. He will buy Dean Winchester the time he needs.

 

FINIS

 

* * *

_Batter my heart, three-person's God, for you  
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;  
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend  
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.  
I, like an usurp'd town to'another due,  
Labor to'admit you, but oh, to no end;  
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,  
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.  
Yet dearly'I love you, and would be lov'd fain,  
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;  
Divorce me,'untie or break that knot again,  
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,  
Except you'enthrall me, never shall be free,  
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me._

John Donne


End file.
